


Your Unending Twilight

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Melkor Just Wants To Curl Into a Ball, Mild Sexual Content, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 11:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12770022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: The room is silent when he slips in and the hearth is low, flinging long, hollow shadows across the facets of obsidian blanketed with tapestry, twinking with the waning anguish of the dying embers.***In which Melkor is comforted by His Maia's warmth.





	Your Unending Twilight

Mists and Rains

(Poem Excerpt by Charles Baudelaire)

***

wan months of mist in which in the north prevail,

no boon so dear to souls whereon the snows

forever fall and shades of death enclose,

 

as your unending twilight cold and pale,

\--unless, some moonless eve should find us, twain,

creeping in beds of chance to lull our pain.

***

The room is silent when he slips in and the hearth is low, flinging long, hollow shadows across the facets of obsidian blanketed with tapestry, twinking with the waning anguish of the dying embers. 

The door clicks too loud behind him and the cold chamber resounds with the solemn echo of the lock. Mairon glides soundlessly, careful to approach the waiting bed, the silken sheets and smothering velvet that tuck away darkness absolute. 

Mairon safeguards His form with half-lidded eclipse-eyes, the pain that flits across his Master’s visage- an unwelcome distortion of His features in niveous white, the parting of His quivering lips in breathless terror, the jagged expansion of His scarred chest. Exposed as He is, vulnerable and shivering from the cold of the room, Mairon can only feel a surge of abhorrence for those that caused Him this grief: the constant torment of a god in mortal flesh. 

But tonight he has done all that he could in their war, and Mairon instead seeks to bestow comfort. Quickly he sheds his clothing, and quickly does his warm embrace surround Melkor’s, enwrap Him and shield Him. Melkor stirs in His uneasy slumber, confusion in the crinkle of His brow- but His body relents readily to the familiarity of His Maia’s touch. 

Softly black lashes part and curl around glossy eyes, and softly slips a hush from Mairon’s lips, the lingering press of them to Melkor’s jaw. A sigh escapes his Master and Mairon finds himself pulled closer _(always closer),_ and Melkor shivers against the torrid ardor of Mairon’s heat. The Mighty Arising presses His nose the the satin of His Maia’s neck, the gentle sloping curves into the harsh line of his collarbones, and He inhales the scent of forge-work and cinnamon and bites His lips to keep the remnants of His nightmares from surging back. 

His Little Flame understands without words, brushes the slick hair from His temples and kneads the tense muscles of His broader back, the span of rippling muscle; chiseled marble coated in a sheen of frost-sweat, barely containing the tenebrous shade of His soul.

They lay there like this, bodies entangled, Melkor tucked so close to His Lieutenant that warms Him, makes Him forget of the mangled ache of His body and the flitting agonies of His insanities. And He needs him, He knows, would have fallen apart had he not been there to hold Him together. 

His hands weave unsteadily into His Maia’s hair, shimmering with embers and flowing like languorous magma. He shifts him so that Mairon looks down at Him and Mairon knows _(he always knows),_ what the glittering unlight in his Master’s eyes mean, what the yearning trails of dried tears _plead_ for. When Melkor’s lips find his they part and swell from the pressure and heat. 

Mairon consumes Him, his hair falling over the Vala’s scarred face to curtain them from Irmo’s constant curses, to shield them from the eyes of Manwë that are the eyes of Eru. The movement is not soft, not rough: but needy, and Mairon clutches Him close as He huddles so near. The light in his eyes consumes Melkor’s vision but does not hurt as the Silmarils do- the light is blurry and golden and _warm_ and faded around the edges, and Melkor can see only understanding and unquenchable passion, eternal as the Imperishable Flame and intense as the light of The One. 

Mairon’s hands hold Him, surround Him and caress Him, smooth over His arms and run along the slashes and stabs of Fingolfin, soothe over the charred burns of His blackened hands. He does not pull away but relents when Melkor urges him to overtake Him, to cover Him completely as a flame that burns the coals. 

And Mairon lays atop Him, presses the Vala’s weary body into the cushions, moves his hips in time to Fëa-pulse that Melkor can no longer control. Heat surrounds Him, and fills Him, and when Mairon rocks his hips forward, fully sheathed, Melkor does not hold back His whimper of need as His Precious claims Him and presses searing kisses along the length of His arched chest. 

Molten gold drips from Mairon’s irises and Melkor stares up at him in mute worship, and when Mairon’s thrusts loose tempo it is because Melkor has lost His own and submits to the enwrapping Fëa-light, to the harmonies enwritten in the cocooning inferno of his eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small fic that wish I had time to flesh out more. Ah, well, this will have to do. I'll probably do more of these shorter ones for the meantime- and fluff because my heart needs it :)  
> I've also given up on finding poems other than those by Charles Baudelaire. . .  
> ***


End file.
